Fate's Tricky Methods
by WinniUsagi
Summary: Others call former butler Arthur Kirkland dull, but he's quite content with his quiet life. What he wasn't expecting, however, was a charming French painter to waltz into his life, as well as two little mysterious twins to end up sobbing on his doorstep. Will he learn to appreciate life and possibly fall in love while he's at it? Or will he remain the anorak he is? FACE Family/FrUK
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**** Yay, a FrUK fanfic~! My first one, and it will most definitely develop into a FACE Family story as well. **

**Enjoy Chapter 1!**

* * *

_**I do not own Hetalia.**_

**Chapter 1**

As usual, the half-cloudy streets of London were flooded with many figures, some elbowing rudely past others and some just simply pushing against one another. Some were rushing to possibly reach their work on time to attend an appointment, or were just in a rush to get on with their life to leave the past and simply just _hurry_. A blur of the cream, dark red, and blue coats meshed together before Arthur Kirkland's emerald green eyes as he watched all of the Londoners scamper through the streets and quickly raising their jet-black hats in a form of a quick apology when they bumped into another, and then run towards their destination, mumbling words of annoyance and anger underneath their quiet breaths.

He sighed, taking the gloves out of his pockets and placing them on his hands before heading out into the frenzy. This was why he sometimes hated living on the outskirts of the busy, gloomy city. The rushes when he reached near the heart of the city, the pushing, the yelling, sometimes the fighting- it was all too much, and sometimes he felt like giving the quick on-goers a bloody piece of his mind.

Then again, that was why he also loved London.

Because you see, Arthur Kirkland was the type of person who preferred to get things over with. He liked events and feelings to be quick and rushed, finished and disposed, put in the past. He didn't like to have things last, as he knew that if you got used to something you were fond of, that thing would eventually leave you, never to return.

The only acquaintances he would ever come into contact with would shake their heads at his attitude, tell Arthur he didn't know what he was missing out on, claiming he didn't know the true meaning of love or friendship. Saying that he was just a ball of rubber bands tightly wound together; snapping at anything that came into contact with him, and his feelings were squished together with no way in or out. But Arthur would always reply in a snide manner that, knowing his life, he would always prefer what they called a "boring life" than useless, deep relationships with others that would get him nowhere in his life.

And love. What the bloody hell was this "love" all these people kept going on about, claiming how it "conquered all" and that all you needed to survive through life was love? He had survived for thirty-one years without that damn feeling, and according to himself, he was doing pretty well in his life. For all he knew, love was a non-existent piece of his- hell, _everybody's_ life. It was a silly concept and made people blind, sick fools.

Arthur smirked at the thought before another stranger bumped into him, almost knocking him over completely. He simply nodded his head as an acceptance of the frantic man's apology, and then continued on his way, hoping he wouldn't crash into another person for the entire day. The sky was a dull blue color and was accompanied by a covered yellow sun that seemed to be grinning at him from its hiding place behind the fluffy clouds, and he hated it. The brightness kept shining past the brim of his dark hat and got into his eyes, making him turn away from the sunlight and mutter in annoyance. "Damn sun." He said, and continued his way towards Piccadilly.

And, as usual, Piccadilly was no exception to the crowded streets. More stacked red buses were driving along the roads, stuffed with tourists and Londoners alike. Arthur could hear a few children complaining to their fidgeting mothers that they wanted to go home, and that they hated London. He scoffed, smirking at the children's discomfort, finding, for some strange reason, a certain liking to the little ones' miserable expressions. _"Little do they know what a piece of crap life is,"_ He thought as he pushed past a few others towards the little white newsstand near the end of the street, knocking heavily on the small desk with a gloved knuckle. "Oi, I'm here, Antonio." He said, calling out to the messy back area of the little shop, "What've you got today?"

A tan, dark-haired figure peeked from behind a large, seven-foot stack of newspapers, his green eyes blinking for a moment with a look of confusion at Arthur's arrival, immediately changing to a cheerful one once he realized who was at the front of his newsstand. "Arthur!" He chimed excitedly, and waved to the Englishman, nodding, "I'll be right with you, hold on a moment!"

Arthur nodded and looked down at the desk idly, his eyes scanning the different articles on top of it. Piles of newspapers, magazines, guidebooks, London keychains, little packs of chiclets and cigarettes alike littered the table in an unorganized manner, making him twitch slightly at the mess. He then looked up at the man who was walking over to him with a stack of black and white newspapers tied together by a red string.

"Here we are!" He said cheerfully, dropping the stack on top of the desk. Arthur stared at the man. His disheveled, dark brown curls rest atop his head, as if he hadn't combed them that morning, and his lime green eyes sleepily smiled at the Englishman. "What is it?" He asked, noticing Arthur's staring.

"Have you been staying up again?" Arthur snapped, his mouth twisting into a pout, and the Spaniard laughed as usual, wiping beads of sweat off of his forehead. He then crouched down to pull out a small white hand towel from behind the desk, still facing Arthur. _"Estoy bien, mi amigo."_ He stood up, wiping his hands and his face, "I have had better nights, but just last night was terrible."

"Well, what happened?"

"Just the constant arrival of new magazines and stock orders of cigarettes." Antonio shook his head wearily, throwing the towel beside a stack of cigarettes, "I swear, those workers never give me my products on time, which always kills my business_ and_ my sleep!" He sighed, placing his hand on his forehead dramatically, and then grinned at Arthur. "Why, were you worried for me?"

"No, I was wondering if I had to find a new newspaper stand to waste my time at." Arthur replied, grabbed a package of chiclets which he put in his coat pocket. He then picked up a newspaper and spread it out on the desk with one hand while jamming his other in his jean pocket, placing the few coins left in Antonio's outstretched hand. The Spaniard smirked, placing the coins in his pocket, a smile still etched upon his face. "Of course. The day I see Arthur Kirkland actually care for someone-"

"Will never exist, not in this lifetime." Arthur nodded, and turned a page of the paper, "So, what's new in the world?"

"No idea," Antonio shrugged, pointing to a section on the newspaper, "but word on the street says that there have been larger amounts of tourists pouring into England, especially London because of the rising economy, most of them French."

"Damn it. More snobby frogs in the country." Arthur muttered, his eyes still focused on the paper as he fixed his hat, feeling more rays of the annoying, bright sun cutting into his vision. "What else?" Arthur asked even as he skimmed through the articles.

"That's all. More immigration, meaning more groups of police stationed along the borders." Antonio sighed, resting his head on his hand and looking off dreamily into his imagination, "One day, I will escape from this crappy newsstand job and Lovino and I can finally run away to another country, possibly by the countryside, together..." A silly grin stretched across his lips as he gazed off, causing Arthur to snap his gloved fingers at him, annoyed. "Oi, Spaniard, wake up. You're in the real world now. No escape to anywhere unless your newsstand magically becomes some kind of rich restaurant."

"Hey, it could happen!" Antonio laughed, now pulling a red towel from underneath the desk and starting to wipe it clean as Arthur turned away from him, continuing to scan the black and white newspaper, "If the countryside option doesn't work! I mean, Lovi and I are both great cooks, we could pull it off together!"

"Mhm. Sure. Especially with the increasing prices to rent a flat these days, you could totally gather up the money to rent out a restaurant."

"Always the skeptic, Kirkland."

"It's just no one looks at life realistically outside this city!" Arthur exclaimed angrily, turning around and slamming the paper onto the desk, ignoring Antonio's mumbling.

"Here we go," he said quietly as he shuffled towards the back of the newsstand.

Antonio sighed. "Arthur, everyone looks at life differently. Not everyone has to see life exactly like you."

"I've seen life as it is, Antonio. I know the ups and downs of it, and how people are actually stupid enough to-"

"OI! STOP, YOU!"

Both the Spaniard and the Englishman turned around towards the sound of the cry, which was shrieked from the corner of the street, attracting the attention of others surrounding them. There, turning around the corner, running quickly and stealing quick glances at the group of British police chasing after him was a young man, his golden wavy locks dancing in the air behind him as he frantically dashed around the crowd of Londoners.

And out of the entire crowd, he seemed to stand out the most in Arthur's eyes. As everyone else had an expression of focus and tension across their faces, he had complete fright in his eyes, and, instead of wearing dark colored-clothing, he had a light blue shirt and white jeans on, which both seemed to flutter behind him along with his hair.

"What the hell?" Arthur muttered, and then turned back to Antonio, whose green eyes were staring at the commotion in a concerned manner.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" He asked the Englishman, his mouth twisting.

"He'll be fine," The blonde waved his hand, shaking his head nonchalantly, "Criminals like them these days deserve to be punished, the police catching another one today will just help our society."

"But he seems so scared, and-"

"He'll be fine. The criminal deserves what he gets, so he'll be fine." Arthur looked over at the packs of cigarettes, his hand trembling slightly. He wanted to reach over there, grab a packet, rip it open, and-

"_C'était pas moi! _It wasn't me! Gentlemen, please leave me alone!" The voice cried out, and Arthur turned around once more to watch as the man was now being gained upon by the angry police along the brick wall of the building across, a look of worry striking upon his pale face. "Please!"

"We saw you reaching for that guy's wallet! Give it up!" One policeman roared, his face red and puffy from chasing the man down the streets, and stretched his hand out as he grew closer, "Now! Or else we're taking you in!"

"_Non, non, _you have it all wrong!" The man waved his hands timidly, his hair falling over his face as he continued to run along the street, his blue eyes large with fright, "That gentleman had dropped it and I was simply returning it to him! I swear, _monsieur,_ I have never stolen anything in my entire life! Except for maybe a few women's hearts, but other than that, I've never taken anything without asking!"

"Lies!" Another growled, reaching into his pocket, and Arthur could see the outline of circular objects jangling around in the dark interior as he ran after the man.

Handcuffs. He was going to arrest the man who looked so frightened he was about to puke.

"Look at him, Arthur!" Antonio whimpered, pointing at the group of policemen and the young man, "Doesn't he look innocent? He really looks like he didn't do it, and they won't leave him alone!"

Arthur could feel his chest twist a bit, as the man truly did seem like he hadn't done the crime he was accused of; then again, there were things called lies that existed in the world.

Yet there were also facial expressions. And this man as well as Antonio both shared the mutual look of needing aid.

He sighed and gave Antonio one last glance, who waved at him, ushering him eagerly towards the opposite side of the crowded streets. He rolled his eyes. "I cannot believe I'm doing this." He muttered, turned back and then darted.

Through the crowd and quickly avoiding the honking cars, Arthur ran quickly towards the chasing party, cutting through the dark alleys before them, knowing where it would lead him to. He turned this way and that through the alleys and then, in a few moments, found himself behind a flat building, a few steps ahead of the young man and the police. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing heart, he looked back at the figures heading towards his way, raised his hat, and ran a sweaty hand through his dirty blonde hair, gulping. _"You won't get caught, Kirkland."_ He thought, brushing out the wrinkles in his coat,_ "For the Queen's sake, get a grip on yourself."_ He wouldn't get caught, would he? The police hadn't ever caught him before, and so they wouldn't this time, would they?

Pursing his lips, he reached out and grabbed the pale hand and yanked it towards the alley, hearing a brief yelp of surprise as his fingers intertwined with the young man's. Bringing him closer to the darkness of the alley, he cupped his hand over the man's mouth as he slammed him against the wall, hoping the stern look in his eyes would convey the message he couldn't speak out loud.

The man winced at the slumped lower against the hard surface, breathing heavily under the shadows of Arthur's large coat and the alleyway. He gulped, small spheres of sweat rolling down the side of his face, and then nodded, a light of realization hitting his wide light blue eyes as he stared at Arthur.

The Englishman looked back and, after confirming that the policemen were far from their location, pulled the man back up. "Are you okay?"

"_O-Oui."_ The man nodded, blonde curls bouncing up and down as he stood up to about Arthur's height, _"Merci beaucoup."_

"Oh, great." Arthur mumbled under his breath. He should have known. Earlier, with the pleading in French, the accent, the fashion, the hair- everything.

The man was _French_.

He tilted his head. "What is it, _monsieur?"_

"You're French." Arthur simply stated, as if it were the most obvious thing on the planet, and to the Englishman's surprise, the man laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, yes, I am. Is that a problem?"

"I don't like French frogs." He muttered. He knew it sounded childish to state such a thing, to dislike someone because of where they were from, and he didn't want to, but he couldn't help it.

The man laughed again. "Well then, I shall rid you of my presence, _Sourcils._" He turned away, winking at him, _"Merci _for saving me, and-"

"Wait!" Arthur advanced forward, grabbed the man's arm and brought it towards him, staring at the red scratches etched all along the Frenchman's skin. He looked up and saw a few more bruises and scratches on his face, especially around the cheekbones, and Arthur could feel his mouth twist into familiar worry. He turned away, still holding the Frenchman's outstretched arm, and mumbled something quietly.

"What did you say?" The other asked curiously, leaning in towards Arthur. "I couldn't quite-"

"I said forget it." Arthur muttered, poking at the injuries, "You're coming home with me. We need to tend to these."

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**A/N:**** Yay! Lotsa stuff goin' on here~ (:**

**Please review! I'd like to know if people are actually interested in my continuing the story or not~ I'm not too sure, so if you think it should be continued, drop me a review and I'll be happy to continue! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**** Enjoy Chapter 2! I'm so sorry for the long wait! Thank you all very much for being patient!**

_**I do not own Hetalia. Or Arthur's tendency to be utterly adorable.**_

**Chapter 2**

Arthur huffed angrily. _"Of course."_ He thought irritatedly, _"I was just having a simple life, with simple mornings and a simple lifestyle. And now, due to my damn generosity, I'm helping out a damn French frog."_ Shaking his head, he continued walking along the empty streets of his neighborhood. Yet the silent sounds of children playing and cars and scooters passing by still seemed to bang on his eardrums like loud boulders falling down a hill.

"Is this your home, then?" The voice behind him asked softly as they approached the cream-colored small mansion, and he grunted again. He was growing quite tired of the French stranger poking questions at him, asking constantly about which types of specific trees were planted on the front yards of some of his neighbors, which types of flowers were littered among the dull green blades of grass, and even as to whether the Englishman lived there or not.  
"No, it's my pub." He growled as he marched up the front stairs of his house, "What the bloody hell do you think it is?!"

"I was just asking!"

Arthur yanked on the Frenchman's hand as he advanced towards the brown wooden door, jamming his free hand into his pocket and then pushing it into the golden lock underneath the knob. "Why would you ask such a stupid question, you frog?!" He asked as he struggled with the door.

_"Désolé, mon ami,"_ Francis said, holding up both his arms in protest as if to imply his innocence, "I was simply wondering, since I do not know how English neighborhoods look like." He grinned, his blue eyes suddenly sparkling with excitement, "Mais _merci _for showing me around. I love tours, especially that of large houses."

"Shut up!" Arthur immediately replied, "This isn't a bloody tour. I am simply helping you with your wounds and then kicking your French arse out of my home."

He smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "How kind of you."

"Shut up!" Arthur repeated.

He half-kicked the door, cursing quietly under his breath about the "damn old bloody door" and then yanked the man again into the large house, trying to ignore his gasps of awe. When he turned around, the Frenchman was twirling around, his eyes wide at the old furniture and large space in the living room. _"C'est très magnifique!" _He exclaimed, waving his arms around and his locks of his golden wavy hair dancing beside him.

"You're in England. Speak the Queen's English, bloody frog." Arthur half-spat, slamming the door shut.

Francis turned slightly so his pouting face was directly looking at the Englishman, the short black lines of stubble on his chin present as he stuck it in the air, "It is my language, I can speak it wherever I want to, _oui?"_

"No, you can't. Not in this household."

Francis was silent for a moment and then walked towards the door, reaching for the doorknob as he passed Arthur. He turned back once again and winked at him, a small grin on his face. "Well then, _désolé, mon ami,_ but I cannot help but speak my language wherever I would like."

Arthur was ataken back by his reply. That man should have been on his knees, begging for Arthur to take care of his wounds, thanking him for even considering helping him, claiming he would stop speaking his bloody language! But he was _leaving?_ "W-Where the hell do you think you're going?!"

Francis looked confused. "Out...?"

"B-But your injuries...!"

The Frenchman laughed lightly. "They are minor, so I will manage. But thank-"

"Oh no you don't!" Arthur grabbed the man's sleeve and yanked him back in. "I'm not letting you go until those damn injuries are fixed."

He laughed once more, his blue eyes full with happiness, _"Merci."_

"Yeah, well, you're welcome." Arthur grumbled, and turned, gesturing towards the hallway. "Follow me, frog."

* * *

Letting out a sigh of relief, Francis stepped out of the bathtub, rubbing his ears out with the blue hand towel Arthur gave him. Adjusting the larger maroon velvet one around his waist, he started to nonchalantly whistle a little tune as he attempted to fix up his wet hair, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The Frenchman let out a small hiss as he slowly peeled off the white bandage from his arm, revealing a small cut from when the police officers had pushed him down onto the sidewalk after falsely accusing him, streams of red surrounding it. He then started to unwrap strips of gauze Arthur had placed on his larger cuts, pursing his lips in pain as the wounds revealed themselves, dark auburn marks imprinted on his pale flesh shining in the bright white light of the bathroom light. He wondered why he had even taken a bath after having Arthur wrap his wounds for him, as he thought it seemed a wiser idea to wash them first and _then_ wrap them.

"_I don't care!" Arthur had yelled, "At least keep them safe from more pollution or anything, and now take a bath, damn it!"_

_Francis sighed. "Alright, alright." He replied, holding up his arms in protest once again, "Now, please put down those scissors before you hurt someone."_

He turned to open the bathroom window and looked out, grinning as he took a deep breath, his lungs filling up with fresh air. He watched as he noticed a few little children running around in the neighborhood, playing with each other, their nearby mothers watching them with careful eyes as well as gossiping with other females, their barely-audible voices whispering into the wind. A few cars would drive by quietly every now and then, as well as some red stacked buses like the ones he saw back in Piccadilly, possibly to drop workers or students home. Francis noticed there was also a slight misty touch to the smell of the air, and he looked up at the sky, small fluffy clouds beginning to form, surrounding the bright golden sun. _"It will rain." _He thought, and turned back to the bathroom.

Looking around, his blue eyes flickered in different directions, taking in his surroundings. The pearl-white bathroom looked almost as if it were sparkling, with golden swirls painted on the walls as well as the bathtub and sink. There were even a few patterns with fleur-de-lis decorated around them, and Francis smiled, glad that the Englishman seemed to have a appreciation for the symbol. The entire interior, however, seemed a bit old-fashioned in comparison to the ones he often saw in old pictures of English homes, yet still gave off a small homely vibe.

The Englishman sure had good taste, he would give him that. He also seemed to have an eye for rich things, specifically those from European painters. For instance, Francis himself had noticed what was possibly a smaller replica of the Mona Lisa, or as he called it, _La Jaconde_, hanging proudly in one of the many hallways that made up the house.

He stuck his head out in the hallway, turning around to find the Englishman. He needed to know where to put his towels. _"Monsieur?" _He called out, taking slow, careful steps into the hallway, "Are you there? _Monsieur?"_

Shrugging, the Frenchman decided to look around the large house a bit. Maybe he could find the stranger who helped him and find out what to do with the towels wrapped around him.

As Francis quietly wandered around the dark amethyst hallways, he passed many artistic paintings as well as beautiful antiques such as vases or jewelled boxes that were carefully placed upon wooden tables with intricate designs carved into the exterior surfaces. He would casually brush a finger across the designs as he walked around, noticing a few more with fleur-de-lis symbols, admiring the craftsmanship and artistry, wondering how much this stranger was into beautiful designs.

Francis raised his head again, hoping to catch sight of the stranger. "Hello?" He called out, and then suddenly stopped.

There, at the end of the hallway he was walking across, sat an old dusty box, unclean and decorated with cobwebs and layers of thick dust, hiding it's rich brown color. _"That shouldn't be dusty by itself, it should be clean as well, like the others." _He thought, he slowly reached out to wipe a slice of the dust when-

"Oi!"

Francis jerked back, swinging his arm immediately back to his side, _"Désolé, monsieur." _He apologized, "I was simply looking for you and I stumbled here."

"Why on Earth would you need me?" Arthur demanded, his eyes glaring at the half-naked Francis standing in front of him, water dripping a bit on his carpet. "And why the hell aren't you wearing clothes?!"

The Frenchman winced at the harsh tone in the other's voice. "That is what I wanted to ask you. I was wondering what to do with these," Francis gestured to the soft towel wrapped around his waist and the one he held in his hand, "Oh, and I wanted to know where my clothes were."

Clearing his throat and trying to tear his gaze away from Francis' exposed upper chest, Arthur nodded awkwardly. "Your clothes are drying right now outside on the clothing line."

"But...it is supposed to rain today, is it not?" Francis asked questioningly, his face confused. _"The sky looked very cloudy and it seemed as if it would-"_

"Who would know more about the weather?" Arthur barked, interrupting Francis' thoughts, "You, the tourist? Or me, the man who has lived here for his entire life?"

"But-"

"Shut up!" He turned away, "It's not going to rain! Just be damn patient, your clothes will be dry soon, and-"

A loud boom of thunder interrupted Arthur, his bright green eyes widening a bit. Both the Englishman and Frenchman were silent for a moment before the silent patters of rain landing onto the roof filled their eardrums. A few moments later Arthur darted from the spot, disappearing into the maze of dark hallways, leaving Francis standing there, alone. The Frenchman twiddled his thumbs silently for a few more minutes until he heard a loud voice scream "GODDAMMIT!" into the sky.

Smirking silently, he remained quiet until he looked up and recognized a very upset and dripping wet Arthur storming back, his thick eyebrows slanting downwards in frustration. His eyes lowered down to his arms, where a wet pile of light blue and white clothes intertwined together sat. "Your clothes are damn wet." He muttered angrily, "It was raining."

"I apologize, _monsieur_, what was that?" Francis asked, snickering, "The silly tourist could not hear-"

"Shut up, you bloody frog!" Arthur yelled angrily, and then breathed deeply, as if trying to calm himself. "You can take your clothes back, anyways. I bet that if you put them back on now, you'll be fine by the time you reach your hotel or whatever tourist place you're staying at. The possibilities of you catching a cold are nearly impossible."

"But I-"

"You are welcome for my care of your wounds." Arthur headed quickly towards the door that lead to the entrance, a frantic Francis following him, "Please hesitate to stop by whenever you are free not taking pictures of Big Ben, and have fun."

"Surely you would not send poor little Francis back out in the rain, would you?"

Arthur froze. The question, just like his previous statement about speaking French in England, had shocked him. The Englishman rarely would save the innocent accused, and when he did, he usually kept them over for no more than two hours. Never did one of them backtalk him. They would simply fall at his feet, thanking him for his "kind generosity when there was no one else to turn to in the world".

Or they would at least send him gifts every month for his generosity.

But this Frenchman, to Arthur's disappointment, had a point. He couldn't just kick him out in the rain.

Hesitating for a moment, he finally looked away, avoiding Francis' gaze. "Just follow me, I'll give you a pair of my pajamas for the night." He said grumpily.

"I am staying for the night?" Francis tilted his head to the side in a mock-confused manner, his blonde hair brushing against his bare shoulder as his expression clearly expressed his amusement at teasing Arthur, "But I thought you were only nursing my wounds."

"Shut up!" Arthur reddened slightly, crossing his arms angrily, "I'm only letting you stay until the rain ends. After that, I'm kicking you out."

"Really?" The Frenchman asked happily, a flash of lightning showing his bright blue eyes had brightened, and his crystal-white teeth were shining, "You are going to allow me to stay?"

"Yes-"

_"Ah, merci, merci, merci!" _Francis cut off Arthur and brung him into a tight hug, "I knew you were not just a little tightwad!"

"Excuse me?!" Arthur demanded, pushing Francis away, "I am not a tightwad, you frog! Now shut up, do not touch me, and follow me to get a pair of pajamas."

* * *

"Are you sure these fit me?"

The Frenchman was wearing a pair of light blue cotton pajamas that seemed a bit tight on him, stretching across his body. Francis flopped his arms for a bit, his lips frowning into a childish pout. "I think your pajamas are a bit small for me, _monsieur."_

"Well too bad!" Arthur spat, "It's the largest pair I have, they don't even fit me."

"Well I guess it would work, since you just admitted that you're shorter than I am." Francis smirked, "It is alright, though, _petit lapin. _I know how sad it can be to feel short."

"Will you jam your bloody mouth shut?!" Arthur yelled, his face fuming, "I am not short! Just be grateful for my letting you in when you had nowhere else to go!"

"But I _am_ grateful. Would you like me to say it again?" The Frenchman placed one hand on his chest and stretched out the other, curving it upwards, bowing slightly, "Merci, _monsieur,_ for taking me in."

"What the hell-"

"So, where do I sleep?" He asked brightly, straightening up.

Hesitating again, Arthur scratched his head. Back when he used to work and have guests over for his master, he would let them sleep on his bed while he would rest on the couch. He never kept the innocent accused over for more than two hours, and usually kept them over during the afternoon time. And as much as he rather disliked this certain Frenchman, he could not act in an ungentlemanly manner and force the man to sleep on the scratchy old navy blue sofa.

Clearing his throat, Arthur finally spoke. "You can sleep on my bed."

Instead of thanking him like Arthur had predicted, Francis raised an eyebrow. "And where will you sleep?"

"That is none of your business." He replied gruffly, pulling a pillow and a blanket from the wooden cupboard beside the bed, throwing it at Francis.

"You are not going to sleep on that broken-down sofa I saw when I came in, are you?"

"That is none of your business!" Arthur repeated again, emphasizing the negativity. "I will sleep wherever I want, you frog. So good night."

"You are not very good at lying."

"Well fine!" Arthur threw his hands up in the air, frustrated, "I will sleep in my own bloody bed, and there's nothing you can do about it. So shut up and sleep."

"Alright. _Bonne nuit, étranger." _Francis said, and quickly reached out to hold Arthur's face in his hands, pecking each of his cheeks once before falling back to the bed, a tired sigh escaping his lips as he rolled over.

Arthur blinked, his eyes wide and his cheeks turning bright red. "W-What the hell was that?!" He demanded, "That contact was unnecessary, you know!"

"I was simply wishing you a good night." Francis replied sleepily, still rolled over on his side.

"What?! Is that some of custom, o-or-"

A quiet snore was Francis' reply, and the Englishman sighed, rolling onto his side. "Bloody frog." He whispered under his breath, and, within a few moments, he himself fell asleep.

* * *

Yawning as he stretched his mouth wide open, Arthur blinked, his green eyes flickering as the sunlight peering through the blinds shone directly onto his face, waking him. He groaned and rolled over in an attempt to shield himself from the light, grabbing the pillow next to him and covering his eyes with it.

_"Wait, this pillow is warm."_

He looked up and noticed that the spot next to him was empty, yet cleaned up and small wrinkles had decorated it, a small blanket neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He blinked again, now in confusion as he remembered what had happened the day before.

The chase. The Frenchman. The rain.

"Ah, _bon matin!"_ A cheerful voice greeted him, and he looked up in disbelief, the same Frenchman waving at him from the doorway of his bedroom, his bright blue eyes wide and awake. "How did you sleep?"

"...Well, thank you." Arthur replied slowly, the words rolling off his tongue as many questions flooded through his mind. "Why are you wearing an apron?" was the first one that he blurted out.

Francis glanced down. He was still wearing the pajamas Arthur had lent him the night before, and, while he was wandering around in the kitchen, he found the apron, and later decided to put it on. He shrugged. "I thought it was rather cute." He replied.

Arthur sat up, rubbing his eyes sleepily, which made Francis frown. "It's 10 in the morning, you know that, right?"

"What?!" The Englishman half-yelled, throwing the sheets off of him and running towards the bathroom after grabbing clothing from his dresser, "Why the hell didn't you wake me up earlier?! I'm going to be late!"

"For what?"

"For getting up!"

Francis laughed softly. "It's Saturday, _monsieur._ I don't think you'll be late for anything."

"But still! I must get up at 7:30 A.M. every morning!" Arthur replied from the bathroom, his loud voice echoing across the walls. "Maybe you don't understand that, frog!"

Francis shrugged. "Anyways, I'm making breakfast!"

Arthur froze, kicking the door open. "W-What?!"

"What?"

"What did you just say?" Arthur asked, peering from behind the bathroom door.

"I'm making breakfast...?"

The Englishman ran a hair through his dirty blonde hair, his green eyes flickering back from the floor to Francis' confused expression, unsure. "A-Are you sure you want to do that?" He asked shakily.

"Why not?"

Arthur, not wanting to tell a stranger about the upsetting history of anything being cooked in that house ending up being burnt, undercooked, or just plain old inedible. Pursing his lips, he managed to let out a nervous laugh. "D-Did anything i-interesting happen?"

"No...?" Francis replied, his blue eyes still blinking in confusion, "Was something supposed to happen?"

After a few moments of silence, Arthur nodded. "Alright. Never mind. Carry on."

"Anyways, the _crêpes _are almost finished, would you like to try?"

"Mhm." Arthur nodded sleepily, stumbling out of his bathroom in a dark green robe. He followed Francis out of the bedroom door and towards the maze of dark purple hallways, eventually ending up in the bright yellow kitchen. Francis half-skipped over to the pan on the stove, humming cheerfully as the Englishman slumped over into a chair by the table. It was after he had blinked a few times that he had realized the other was wearing his old clothes from the day before. _"They must have dried."_ He thought, shrugging.

Arthur then bit his lip, a bit disturbed by the deadly silence that surrounded the room, Francis' quiet humming and the silent hiss being emitted from his cooking the only noises filling his eardrums. Whenever Arthur would have anyone over, he would find himself drowning in their endless chatter, silently hoping that they would kindly shut their traps so he could move onto another matter or urge them out of his house. This Frenchman, however, wasn't speaking a single word to him. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, Arthur coughed a bit loudly in an attempt to break the silence. "So, what are you-"

"Ah!" Francis exclaimed, and Arthur immediately was on his feet, running towards him. "What's wrong? Is it burning?! Shall I go get the fire extinguisher?!"

The Frenchman stared at him. "...No...?" He replied, pointing down to the pan, where a golden-brown circle was sizzling, its delicious smell swirling around and enveloping the entire kitchen with its warmth. Arthur blinked. "S-So...it _didn't_ burn...?" He repeated, his green eyes wide at the Frenchman.

"Nope!" Francis grinned, "Why? Was it supposed to?"

"No, no," Arthur waved it off, muttering quietly, "It's just that nothing in this house truly has been rather..._edible,_ if you will."

"Oh."

Watching the Frenchman flip the food onto a nearby plate and pour more batter onto the griddle, the Englishman almost hit himself in the face. He was letting a _stranger_ cook inside _his_ house, and he hadn't even said anything!

What?!

"Wait, so _why_ exactly are you cooking inside my house?!" Arthur demanded, his voice immediately turning sour. "I mean, you're a damn stranger, I let you in, and now you're cooking..." He turned to the griddle, rolling his eyes, "...pancakes?!"

_"Crêpes, monsieur._ Not pancakes." Francis corrected, a small smirk forming.

"I don't care! Why are you doing this?"

"Because I think it is important?"

"For what?" He asked impatiently. He was getting tired of this stranger's quick and short answers.

"For first impressions, of course!" Francis grinned, turning to Arthur.

"Why?"

He laughed brightly. "You sure do ask a lot of questions, _Sourcils."_

"'Sore-seal'? What does that mean?" Arthur asked, raising a thick eyebrow in confusion.

Chuckling again, the Frenchman simply shook his head. "Nothing. Would you like to try cooking it?" He asked, gesturing towards the food in the griddle.

Arthur pursed his lips and looked away, mumbling quietly under his breath. Francis tilted his head to the side, confused. _"Quoi?_ I cannot hear-"

"I can't cook, you bloody frog!" Arthur snapped, whirling around to face the other, "I can't cook a single damn thing in this whole world! If I try, it simply turns to ash! That is why I have to order food every single damn night!"

"Nonsense. Everyone can cook, _monsieur-"_

"Stop calling me that! My name is Arthur!"

He smiled, "Alright then, Arthur. Listen- everyone can cook. Just not everyone can discover their ability to do it."

"What fairytale book did you read _that_ from?" Arthur asked, crossing his arms angrily. "That is total bull-"

"Come here." Francis took his wrist and brought him forward towards the griddle, wrapping Arthur's hands around the handle of the spatula and then putting his own on top. Arthur immediately tried to pull away, his eyes wide. "What on Earth are you doing?!"

"Helping you find your inner cook, Arthur." The Frenchman smiled, "Now, stop being uncooperative and come on." He brought his hands forward and slowly poked the food, "See? It's rather stiff and solid, yet the color still isn't a completely golden brown, so you..."

Francis trailed off, his voice slowly tuning out, yet Arthur could feel his heart quickening. _"Why the hell is he trying to show me how to cook?"_ He thought stubbornly,_ "I've managed eating from Antonio's for the past seven years...surely I can handle not cooking for the rest of my life!"_

"...and, there!" Arthur felt his hands flip over the crêpe, and a small hiss reverberated as it landed against the griddle. He gasped. "I-I did it!"

_"Oui,_ you did! I told you you could."

"Shut up and let me relish in my short victory, you frog!"

Francis simply chuckled and smiled as he watched the Englishman slide the thin pancake onto a plate he pulled out, his green eyes watching it with wonder. "You look shocked, Arthur."

"Nothing has been cooked in this house without it being completely covered in black burnt flavoring." The Englishman muttered, his eyes still focused on the food. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Cook, you frog!"

Francis chuckled again. "It's not a magic of some sort, you know. Anyone can do it."

Arthur's eyes perked up. "Magic?" He asked softly.

_"Oui."_ The Frenchman started to pour more batter onto the griddle, turning it around. The golden liquid reached every corner of the circular area, the edges crisping and developing a dark brown color as it started to cook. "Cooking is like magic. Anyone can do it," He flipped up the crêpe with such ease, as if an invisible string lifted it the flat, golden sphere into the air, and smiled at Arthur. "And the result is always different for each person, yet still beautiful in every single way." He grinned, "By the way, my name is Francis."

"What a French name for a French frog." Arthur said, crossing his arms. But he couldn't deny that he truly enjoyed the Frenchman's presence. Of course, though, he would eventually have to leave. Arthur couldn't keep the man over for too long, as he had to remember the philosophy: never get too close to anyone. It breaks that person. And you.

"Arthur?"

"What?" He asked harshly, Francis' voice breaking his thoughts.

"What would you like on top of your _crêpes?_ I prefer cinnamon myself, but-"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Arthur simply waved it off. _"The quicker he gets out, the better."_

He sat quietly at the kitchen table as Francis sifted some cinnamon on the thin pancakes, humming quietly under his breath. The quiet sound of the shaker moving back and forth in Francis' expert hands filled the silent kitchen, and Arthur felt beads of nervous sweat trickle down the side of his head. "So..." He felt the words roll off of his tongue before he could control them, "...why is such a frog like you in England?"

The Frenchman seemed to brighten at the question as he set two plates on the table for the two of them. "I came here simply to visit. You know, Big Ben, Piccadilly- the big scenes." He smiled and took a bite of his food.

"Of course." Arthur muttered, taking a bite of his crêpe. "Too many bloody tourists in this area." He immediately shut his mouth in an attempt to suppress the moan of happiness he wanted to emit from the first bite. As much as he hated to admit it, the food was simply amazing.

He laughed. "How optimistic you are, _Sourcils._ Why not see this as a good thing?"

"What could possibly be good about this?"

"You will be able to meet new people from different countries, right?"

"How is that _good?"_

"Well, you got to meet me."

Arthur snorted. "Like that's the best thing that's ever happened to me." He said sarcastically.

"I knew it would be!" Francis took the last bite of his food, pushing his plate gently away from him. "Did you like the food?"

"It was alright." Arthur lied, running a hand through his sandy hair. "I-"

_Ding-dong!_

"What-"

"I'll get it!" Arthur immediately ran out and towards the door, swinging it open after he kicked it a few times. "Look, if you're selling us anything, we don't-"

_Sniffle, sniffle._

The Englishman looked down. There, by his feet, were two twins, sobbing. Both were in cream-colored night gowns, their golden hair covering their faces as they looked up, streams of fat, thick tears rolling down their pink cheeks. One had sky cerulean eyes and bright yellow hair that shimmered in the light of the sun as he looked up at Arthur whereas the other had bright violet eyes that were half-closed as he cried, his wavy golden hair falling a bit past his shoulders.

The two both immediately ran to Arthur's knees and clung to them, their cries loudening. "P-Please help us!" The blue-eyed one wailed, and the Englishman blinked, immediately turning to his door.

"FRANCIS!"

**A/N:**** Yay, cliffy~! xD**

**Review please? :D 3**


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